rip it apart and kill it (this dead heart of mine)
by gustin puckerman
Summary: ONE-SHOT. She was already broken when he first met her, it was just a matter of breaking her a little bit more. ― Sherlock/Rose, mainly Sherlock-centric. #1 of Emma Series.


**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairing**: Sherlock/Rose.  
**Words**: 3,009 words.  
**Note**: _Emma Series_ is a compilation of one-shots/multi-chapter fictions that I've came up with my best friend, Emma, who was responsible for my complete sweet surrender to Roselock, when I'm supposed to concentrate on my study. Seriously, we weren't even planning on any fanfictions when everything we (she) said suddenly became like a list of [Roselock] prompts to me. So, here it is.  
**Extra Note**: Listen to "_Dead Hearts_" by Stars to get some feels. Highly recommended, yup.

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**RIP IT APART AND KILL IT (THIS DEAD HEART OF MINE)**  
"_MIND-FUCKED_"

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.

It was raining when Sherlock first met Rose Tyler. He was supposed to meet up with John by the old coffeehouse where the owner never bothered to learn English fluently and where the shop had always oddly smelled like fresh-out-of-the-oven breads and warm breakfast, one to which he knew Mary would appreciate greatly. It was also never supposed to _rain_, which was why Sherlock irritatedly found himself seeking shelter from the heavy downpour, ended up standing with dark curls stuck to his forehead nastily and more people joining him to escape the sudden weather.

Growing impatient (and very annoyed), he sent a text demanding John on his whereabout, keeping his focus mainly on the phone and nothing else (what could these over-growing crowd could possibly offer him anyway?) when he caught her eye-bleaching red coat, her shoulder bumped against his bent elbow.

Her unnatural blonde hair curled by her shoulder blades, but he easily deduced off that the curl too wasn't natural when her eyes met his and she gestured him with the largest grin he'd ever witnessed. "You're beautiful," was the first thing she said, through the rain, and through her white teeth, and through the mist that escaped from her lips, and Sherlock frowned ― hard and tight ― because he was a genius sociopath, a brilliant detective; was never _beautiful_, never been told on the first meet at least.

She shook her head soon after, perhaps realising what she just said and chuckled ― a quite little choke of gurgle ― but her grin never ceased, never diminished, instead he thought it grew a tad larger when she proceeded, "M'sorry. I shouldn't―" She bit her pink lips then, white teeth stamped against the skin, friendly and seductive and flirtatious and everything all at once, and scrunched up her nose. "I'm sorry." She managed to squeak and quietened down, dragging her eyes elsewhere, and in her hands were a cup of warm coffee right from the coffeehouse. She sniffed off the scent.

"It's quite alright," he muttered despite how the situation went, a tinge of modesty he solely inherited from his father lingered there, and he cleared his throat as a gesture of dismissing the matter entirely.

She caught his words still though ― through the heavy rain and the growing murmurs and people rushing past and squeezing in ― and threw him a gentle smile (it stayed there, her smile, he could still picture it, drew it, _traced_ it with the tips of his fingers) until she's gone, lost to the rain, going about to her life as though she's pressed on a pause before, and her figure cleared from his mind, her red coat lost somewhere compiled in a list he may or may not need in the future stacked messily in his mind palace; Sherlock moved on like he first met her.

Quickly.

.

Of course he hadn't immediately remembered the first encounter because the next mention of her happened nearly a year later, sitting at his brother's dark office, illuminated solely by the daylight outside as it streamed through the large window by his right side, and Mycroft had looked serious (―_was there any other look?_) and old, the years spent fussing about petty things have finally gotten onto his skin, wearing him down. He coughed in between the silence which hung over the atmosphere, and Sherlock was reminded again how smoking was never initially good for your health.

He had a file of her in his hand, her backgrounds and reports, names and faces, all stacked neatly with each paper he flipped, his mind sped-read through the information (something both him and Mycroft picked up from mummy even though they were never as good as her― they _pretended_ they were though) because a part of him was gathering more reasons not to accept the case, but Mycroft had been agitated more than he normally was, and Mary _had_ told him to be kinder when he left their (meaning: John and her) apartment after briefly interrupting their breakfast, and visiting his god-daughter.

Mycroft had called her _The Girl Who Never Existed_ because aside from five years back, there had been no sightings of her― or a document for that matter. But that wasn't the main reason Mycroft was getting terribly worked up on her. Apparently she's a larger asset than Mycroft really preferred her to be and that wasn't acceptable (―then again, nothing was acceptable in Mycroft's world if it wasn't following _his_ order), and Sherlock's job had been to infiltrate her. Her _mind_, to be exact, and it wasn't anything Sherlock hadn't heard before: extract everything, leave nothing and destroy target.

Target. There was just something appealing (and so very wrong) to think of her that way, and Mycroft was convinced that she was nothing more than a woman ready to build an army against the government (and we wouldn't want that do we), and he needed (_desperate_) for Sherlock to oversee this, oversee _her_, and break it.

Break _her_.

That hadn't been the exact term, but Sherlock wasn't stupid.

"It would be just like solving a puzzle", Mycroft had chose to drawl, his finger moved harmlessly at the cup of tea that he ordered but never drank, placing it just a degree up because it wouldn't be _correct_ if he hadn't done anything about it while Sherlock watched. "_Human_ puzzle," the older man added, blinked and brought his hand elsewhere. Sherlock chose not to say a word, at least not yet. "Infiltrate. Extract. Destroy. You know how it is, brother."

He did and nodded.

(Obedience had never been his trait, but there was something about the picture of unnatural yellowy-blonde hair she harboured and the unnatural curls around her shoulder blades, the one where she wore a worn red coat, the one that kept him silent, the one that _burned_.)

.

Constructing their first "accidental" meeting was easy― _easier_ when John (especially _when John_) had introduced her to him.

Her mouth was wide when her smile bled off from her face and she was gentle when she met his stare ― he had played pretence he was in a foul mood; they were at a formal event, and he was invited _because of_ _reasons_ ― and he'd gave her his best (harshest) stare, but took her hand in his. When John left them for Mary at the dance floor, he found himself almost chipping off his well-planned dialogues, until she interrupted, an abrupt chuckle, amused glint swam across her eyes.

He had frowned.

"M'sorry," he thought he'd heard this before, staring down at her. "It's just― do you see that man?" She pointed towards one direction, where a fat, bald man in glasses looked around before picking up the food and shoving it in his pockets; her grin widened. "He's been stealing food all night, and he thought no one notices."

_But she had_. Only because it had been way-too obvious. He stared. "He just lost his job," he blurted out, his eyes wandering once towards the man again before he forced it to the corner on the ceiling (nothing in this room had his interest― well, except for _her_) and she returned her stare on him, astonished, an eyebrow hiking up. It was easily concluded off that she was impressed.

He allowed himself to smile, only a little. John would have called it arrogance.

(―he didn't know how it happened, but a minute later they were both sipping off from the champagne flutes and she's laughing at something he just commented ― her laughter had been loud and clear and genuine ― and her eyes shone in that way that didn't look like a woman who's ready to build an army, or spilling secrets to kill anytime soon, but he'd been wrong before and he's not going to make another mistake now; so when his own lips stretched into a wider smile than he'd like, he told himself that it was to _obtain the target_.)

(The target's name was Rose Tyler.)

.

It was raining when Sherlock first kissed Rose Tyler. They'd been on two dates then, without counting that one very _coincidentally_ bump-in at the park, and they were playing (teasing) mostly, and she was laughing ― high-pitched and shrieking and squinty-eyes through the weather all on him ― and he's sneaking fingers to tickle her until he got a good hold of her; she shrilled out a delighted, surprised scream, and a chiming laughter, one that shoot straight up to his core, gripped on it, and stayed there (_just stayed there_)― when he brought his lips down and pressed it chastely against hers, like a game, and she'd responded back, before he pulled away and stole kisses around her face, encouraging her wide lips to press up into an even bigger smile.

It was raining. It was _pouring_ and it wasn't like him (not at all) to be in this situation, to act like he's in _love_ (but he had to, he had) and pulled out an overly-dramatic cliché move that would have gagged Mycroft on his deathbed (it would have, he's certain)― to kiss her under the rain, to laugh like he meant it, to hold her like it was his truest his intention, but that's what he did anyway, because the target was splattered over her forehead, wide and alarming, and it was his job to make sure he hits bulls-eye.

She kissed him properly when they ran for cover, and her fingers ran over his dampened curls and he deepened the kiss, just because she's warmer than he anticipated, and he held her closer.

(She tasted like chips and blueberry.)

.

Shedding secrets off of her had proofed to be a simpler task after that― she started coming over to Baker Street more often, and she finally told him about her family, and there's this coded words she spilled somewhere between their conversations like a secret only she knew the meaning behind and she longed for the universe and the stars (―_for something!_) and she'd gave him these type of looks where he'd detected uncertainness passing over it (as though she _wanted_ to tell him) but soon changed the subject entirely. He was patient, though. There was just something about the way her thumb flexed between the space of his fingers and knuckles that urged him to.

The more he'd gotten to know her, the more she became somewhat clearer to him― as a person, as something more.

She was intelligent, but not naturally. Her sense of awareness wasn't wholly questionable, which was evidence she was used to being in dangerous situations. Her shoes worn from too much running, too much walking. She was flirtatious, but friendly. She was stubborn, but caring.

By the fifth time he'd gotten a proper kiss out of her, it was apparent that she too wasn't much whole to even begin with. There's a part of her (the past where she'd tried so hard to cover up with thick layers of lies) cracked her at one point, leaving a large section of her, though concealed, empty and hollow and _vacant_.

For a moment Sherlock wasn't sure if there was anything left to _break_ _off of her_ because Rose Tyler was an emotional wreck deep in the atoms which created her, like somebody had come in and gave her the world, and tore it right back out, and maybe they had, he thought, and he imagined this, her strong personality plummeted down to earth like the rain had on his face, igniting flames when it hit on the same place over and over again, and he pondered: she was already broken when he first met her, what harm could it do to break her a little bit more?

(He did. Break her, that is.)

.

He'd like to say there's more to the story but the only thing his mind could go back to was the sensation of her weight against him as she was flushed, on top of him, on the couch, and it was Sunday (he knew this because John had came over afterwards and read the newspaper) and it wasn't anything sensual (perhaps that's why it's livingly vivid across his closed eyelids; the _innocence_) and she was laughing at something (she was always laughing in his memories of hers, the happy ones) and he's chuckling along with her even though the matter of the discussion had long forgotten by him now, even if he tried to recall it.

"I've been in love, Sherlock." She had said, when it's calmer, and the tips of their fingers touching, lights from the windows filtering through the spaces they created. He'd known of this of course, for a while now. She pressed her nose against his chest then, with just enough pressure to avert his eyes and met hers, and she smiled that glorious smile of hers, the smile that's directly _for_ _him_, and he remembered feeling empty (and hollow and vacant) when she continued, "A long time ago. But now..."

He caught her lips then (desperate) because there's an aching side to his stomach that knew where this was going, and it dreaded him.

(―_like when Moriarty had bombs strapped over John's chest, or seeing Mary with a gun pointed straight to where his heart lied, or when his goddaughter was kidnapped a day before her first birthday party_.)

She pursed her lips, closed her eyes, embarrassment shaping her expression he'd identified, before burying her face against his chest. She said it anyway,

"I think I'm in love with you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

.

He told himself not to, that it was stupid, but he found himself visiting her again, already memorising the steps to take and every route he could take as long as it got him there. Her ward. Her psychiatric ward, to be precise.

She was broken then, truly, and he could see it through her darkening eyes (she never laughed anymore, especially not around him) the almost-healed cracked part of her now just a jumbled-up mess of shattered glasses pooling over and (as Mycroft had worded it out) it all thanks to him.

He broke her ― her brain, herself (there wasn't much difference, but there _was_) ― and now she's shivering whenever he visited her, confide to the corner, cheeks sunken and teeth clattering.

For the girl who never existed, her state of depression was as real as the fingers he now curled into a fist.

And he knew this because he would be the person to hold her back when she lashed out, her arms reached out to _thrive_ for something (an escape, maybe; or just to hurt him) and he held her crumbling body when she sunk down to the floor, her spirits crushed and the life in her eyes dimming, and her nails sunk into his flesh, murmuring out helpless _why's_ even though he'd never answered her, not truthfully.

Sherlock didn't laugh when he'd overheard the nurses exchanging whispers about how funny it was that the one who tossed her into the ward, _the one who thoroughly broke her_, was the one picking up every mess she's made since.

(The blunt humour sickened him.)

.

It had also nauseated him that he'd finally recognised her as the girl in the read coat nearly two years back when she sat there, coughing blood up from her lungs with eyes hazy and unfocused and she's half-unconcious in his arms while he demanded out for help, "My beautiful, beautiful Sherlock." She'd said, weak and limping, strands of messy blonde-turned-brown hair everywhere. "Why do you do this to me?"

(He'd wanted to vomit.)

.

He convinced himself maybe it was guilty, the part of him that spent too much time with dad, the _human_ part, the one where John nurtured during the times they spent together, the one that birthed compassion within him, the _remorse_.

That's why he kept tracks of his visits; still holding a childish hope that there was a still small bit to her that he didn't exploit, didn't turnagainst her, didn't damaged― but he was a rational man, and there wasn't. Manipulations had always been his stronger suits; Rose Tyler should have been seen more like a successful result of an experiment than anything.

"But you're in love with her!" John had argued, loud and angry and veins sticking up on his neck. He favoured Rose; she was kind to him and genuine, and adored his daughter like her own.

"I was not," he retorted back, angry too, because John should've expected this― Sherlock Holmes wasn't meant to fall in love.

At least, not until Rose Tyler was ripped right out of his grasp.

.

(―"Sherlock?" He could still hear the tremor to her voice when his brother had confronted her of the truth; his job was done then, it was time to take his final bow; while she had two strong men in black suits holding her in place. He'd wanted to tell them that they might have to require one more person, but his eyes were strangely stuck on hers― and she hadn't want to believe it, he could see, but his stare hardened as her first tear dropped, the truth must have felt heavy for her to bear. "No," she whimpered, shaking her head, tearful eyes searching for his still, the flicker of hope she held twisted something from inside of his stomach, because she wasn't supposed to be looking at him that way, wasn't supposed to call his name like she had. _Pathetic_, Mycroft must have wanted to say, smirking somewhere in the background. "Please. No." She called again, weak. "Sherlock―"

"Stop." He'd heard his own voice came out, rough and harsh. He hadn't like it how his name sounded on her tongue, not on that moment at least.

"Oh, Ms Tyler. Don't you get it?" Mycroft had drawled out, the streak of triumph lightened up his expression and Sherlock felt lightheaded. "_My brother simply wasn't meant to fall in love_.")

(Somewhere, far away, something shattered.)

.

He wondered if it rains everyday in her eyes now.

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**End Note**: Well, this was stupid. But an introduction no less to what _Emma Series_' bound to be. Each one-shots and multi-chapters are not related to one another if it's separated into another fiction. Thank you for the read, and may your day went well.


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